


You only get one shot at a first impression

by La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bechdel Test Pass, Gen, Moral Ambiguity, Papa Pope's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5469470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/La%20Reine%20Noire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four meetings Olivia Pope had, and one she did not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You only get one shot at a first impression

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moriann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriann/gifts).



> I'm not yet caught up on Season 5 so if there's material that I'm missing, mea culpa. Many thanks to K. for beta-reading.

_Hôtel d'Angleterre, Geneva_

_1996_

 

Eli saw her long before she caught sight of him. If he'd still been a praying man--and he had been long ago--he'd have thanked God for that. All arms and legs she was, her head bent forward against the rain. Not so much her features, near-invisible beneath her hood, as her posture, shoulders hunched, arms crossed tightly. She looked so much like her mother that he had to swallow the lump in his throat.

 

"Olivia," he said as she stepped into the lobby.

 

Her head snapped up and their eyes met. She had his eyes; he'd forgotten that. Strange that he hadn't noticed in all the photos he'd seen of her over the years. Or perhaps not so strange. Eli had never been a sentimental man. He'd always thought that was Maya's place until he'd found out the truth.

 

But no more of that. _That way madness lies_.

 

There was a telltale hesitation in her before she replied, "Dad?"

 

He smiled. "Come here, Olivia. Sit down. We've still got ten minutes before our reservation."

 

She unbuttoned her coat and drew back her hood to reveal perfectly styled hair and a crisp white dress meant for someone twice her age. One of the bellboys appeared on cue to take the coat from her and she handed it off seemingly without a thought. He'd been right to send her to Montreux.

 

"How have you been?" They spoke on the phone on a designated day once a month, but this was the first time he had visited her. Truth be told, it was the first time he'd seen her since she'd disappeared into the gangway at Dulles Airport, her frizzy hair pulled into a tight ponytail and carrying an unfashionable backpack crammed full of books.

 

"Well enough, thank you," replied Olivia. He could catch the hint of an accent, but Olivia was like him and always picked up the cadence of the voices around her. She'd even had a small twang during the year she'd spent at St. Anne's in Charlottesville, but that was too close for comfort. Too close to everything Eli needed to hide. It was why he'd decided to send her to Montreux. That, and because it was what his little girl deserved. Nothing but the very best. "What brings you to Geneva, Dad?"

 

"There's a conference at the University of Lausanne. I'm supposed to be giving a paper on an Abbasid-era manuscript we recently acquired from Tehran, but..."

 

"Let me guess. You haven't written it yet."

 

His assistant and cover at the Smithsonian, a bright, obsessively detailed archaeologist named Noor, had written it two months ago and he'd tweaked it on the flight to add the right flourishes--more importantly, to distinguish it from the version she would be publishing later in the year. She could also shoot a man's eye out from five hundred paces without breaking a sweat. Eli grinned. "There's always the train ride tomorrow."

 

"Not if you're too distracted by the scenery. Besides, it's less than an hour from here."

 

"You could come, you know. Listen to your old man."

 

The briefest of smiles flitted across Olivia's face. "I have classes, Dad. But you can tell me about it over dinner."

 

"I would like that very much."

 

By the time he left her at the station to catch the last train back to Montreux, the smile on his face was only partly from the wine he'd had with dinner. He scarcely saw Maya in her anymore; she was _his_ Olivia, and if he had anything to do with it, she would dazzle the world.

 

***

 

_Columbia University, New York_

_1998_

 

It probably wasn't _that_ surprising that she recognized at least two of the others on the campus tour from the previous day at Princeton, but only one of them interested Abby Whelan. The African-American girl on her own, wearing a dress that probably cost more than half of Abby's wardrobe combined and taking careful notes in a Moleskine with a silver pen.

 

Halfway through the tour, Abby noticed that she'd put away the notebook and the pen. As their undergrad guide droned on about the core curriculum and cracked jokes about the swim test requirement that Columbia waived for engineers on the assumption that they could figure out how to construct a bridge, she sidled up to the other girl.

 

"Hey."

 

The girl glanced at her with dark, suspicious eyes. "Hello." She had an accent that Abby couldn't place. Not British but not clearly American either. Maybe Canadian? For a second, she could hear one of her southwest Virginia cousins asking rhetorically if they had black people in Canada in that way that always made Abby's cheeks turn red and her ears burn.

 

"I'm Abby. I...I saw you yesterday at Princeton. I guess you're also doing the Great East Coast College Tour?"

 

For a second, the girl just looked at her. "You could say that. My father sent me."

 

"On your own?" Abby sighed. "Lucky. I had to fight my mom to let me go on the tour alone. She and my stepdad went off to talk to the admissions counselor because _that_ isn't embarrassing at all."

 

"What's your first choice?" asked the girl. Though she hadn't smiled yet, she looked genuinely curious.

 

"It's got to be Princeton," Abby admitted. "Something about those buildings, you know? The quads and the stone and the windows..."

 

"My father graduated from Princeton. I know that's where he wants me to go."

 

The tour had by this point rounded the corner of the library, leaving them alone, but Abby wasn't inclined to follow. "Hey, you feel like skipping the rest and getting a coffee? The West Side Market is somewhere around here and I hear they have an amazing...everything, really."

 

The girl's smile was as gorgeous as it was unexpected. "I'd love that. I'm Olivia, by the way. Olivia Pope."

 

"Great to meet you, Olivia. And I'm sorry if I'm being nosy but I have to ask about your accent. I've never heard one like it before."

 

Three hours later, Abby realized she'd told Olivia her entire life story while Olivia had explained only a small handful of things to her--she was about to graduate from an exclusive prep school in Switzerland (hence the accent), her father worked for the Smithsonian, and her mother was dead. _I'm so sorry_ , Abby had said after a moment's shock, before stammering that her parents were divorced and she hadn't seen her father in nearly ten years after he moved to California. They then exchanged addresses--Abby had a computer at home, but Olivia didn't at school, so emails weren't an option. _Yet_ , Abby added with a grin. _Everyone will have them sooner or later_.

 

When she arrived at Princeton the following September, it was with a grin and a huge bear hug that she greeted Olivia in their shared dorm room. It was going to be a great four years.

 

***

 

_Princeton University_

_2001_

 

When he heard the knock, Cyrus Beene looked up and swallowed a particularly impressive string of profanity on the discovery that he'd accidentally left the office door cracked. If it were closed, nobody would have dared disturb him. Knocking on Professor Beene's door when it was closed was a well-known taboo in the Department of Politics. A cracked door was a different story altogether.

 

"Come in," he finally said with a heavy sigh.

 

The young woman who stepped through the door was instantly recognizable. Olivia Pope had joined his seminar on American politics after earning one of the highest grades the previous semester in American Political Institutions. She had, Cyrus was forced to admit, a natural knack for understanding what made politicians tick.

 

"Miss Pope." He gestured to the overstuffed chair on the far side of his paper-strewn desk. "How may I help you today?"

 

With impeccable grace, she sat and crossed her legs, placing the monogrammed leather portfolio she was carrying on one knee. "Professor Beene, I was hoping to ask for a letter of recommendation for law school."

 

"Law school?" he echoed, trying not to sound disappointed. "I'd hoped you were about to say grad school."

 

Olivia cracked a smile. "I want to be in politics, Professor, not just study it from the outside."

 

"Huh." Resting his chin on his hands, Cyrus studied her. "Not all political scientists hide in the ivory tower, you know."

 

"That's why I'm asking you for a recommendation. Because you've been out there. The campaign you ran for Governor Grant was literally textbook--Professor Sonnenberg used it as an example in our Electoral Processes class."

 

Cyrus laughed. "No such thing as a flawless campaign, Miss Pope. Let that be the first lesson. I don't suppose anyone told you I nearly left Governor Grant's campaign on my very first day?"

 

Though Olivia's expression scarcely changed, her eyes widened and she leaned forward. "What changed your mind?"

 

"Watching old Jerry Grant's daughter-in-law play him like a fiddle," he replied with a shake of his head. "It was fun while it lasted. And now I'm here instead of in California."

 

"But you won't be for long," she said.

 

For a moment, Cyrus considered this. Then, unfolding his hands, he asked, "Where are you applying?"

 

"Harvard, Yale, and Georgetown. Georgetown is my top choice, for obvious reasons."

 

"To be where the action is; that makes sense. No safety school?"

 

She tilted her head to one side like an offended cat and he had to bite back his laughter.

 

"Fair enough, Miss Pope. I'd be happy to write you a letter. On one condition."

 

"What's that?" There was a sudden guardedness in her voice and Cyrus had to fight not to swear at himself for stupidity. Of course a girl as attractive as Olivia Pope would immediately jump to the wrong conclusion.

 

"If I do end up going back into the snake pit," he replied, "I could use someone with your instincts, especially after you've had a few more years to learn the nuts and bolts of the law. Don't be a stranger."

 

The smile was back. "Wouldn't dream of it, Professor Beene."

 

***

 

_Takoma Park, Maryland_

_2006_

 

Harrison Wright could pinpoint the exact day that he became interested in politics.

 

He'd passed civics in high school--one of the few kids who had--but despite growing up in DC, the higher workings of government had rarely if ever penetrated the projects near Florida Avenue. Even as a scholarship student at Howard, he'd side-eyed the political junkies and activists, content to take his degree in finance and trade it for the once-impossible dream of a full-time job.

 

It wasn't a great job, he soon learned, but Harrison had always had a good brain and a fast mouth, and there was a legitimate market for used luxury cars in the greater DC area where everyone wanted to look like somebody, even if they weren't. Within a year, he was the dealership's top salesman and owned no fewer than eight designer suits--purchased at Nordstrom Rack, but designer all the same. Someday, he told himself, he'd manage bespoke.

 

Then Olivia Pope walked through the door.

 

From the moment she stepped onto the sales floor, his radar was pinging like crazy. Drop-dead gorgeous, perfect hair and makeup, and a somehow spotless white suit complete with a matching fedora. Not a trilby--she clearly knew the difference. On anyone else, it would have looked ridiculous.

 

The question was what she was doing in a used-car dealership. She had money; that much was certain. And he could have sworn her face looked familiar.

 

But there was no time for questions. He had sales to make. Straightening his tie, he strolled over to where she stood beside a 1998 BMW the same color as her suit, lips pursed in concentration.

 

"How may I help you, ma'am?" he asked.

 

She met his eyes for only a split-second before speaking. "Let me be up-front. Whatever car I buy, I'm barely going to use it. I take the Metro everywhere except to visit my father once a week because he insists on living out in Fairfax County. So I don't want anything flashy, just something reliable for whenever I need it. If you're willing to accept these conditions, then yes, you can help me."

 

"I can work with that," said Harrison with his best flirtatious grin. "Harrison Wright."

 

"Olivia Pope." She held out one black-gloved hand. Italian leather or he'd eat his tie. "So, what have you got for me?"

 

He showed her four different cars and she haggled him down a full three thousand dollars on the one she eventually chose--a black 2000 Lexus with leather seats almost as nice as her gloves. Later that night, a Google search explained exactly where he'd seen her before: in the society section of the _Post_ on the arm of Edison Davis, the Senator from Florida newly named to the Intelligence Committee.

 

Harrison didn't see her again until three years later when he was sitting in a jail cell and the guard announced with visible discomfort that his lawyer had arrived. He hadn't hired a lawyer, but there she was.

 

"You're quick and you're smart," she said. "How the hell did you end up in this mess?"

 

Harrison raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Do I become a cliché if I say there was a woman involved?"

 

"Adnan Salif is going to jail for a very long time. If you do exactly as I say, I can make sure you don't."

 

"What do you want in return?" he asked. "I don't sell cars anymore."

 

"No," she allowed, "but I could use an employee with your talents."

 

From that moment, he was hers.

 

***

 

_Grant Campaign Headquarters, Des Moines, Iowa_

_2010_

 

"I swear there are days when I wish dueling were still in fashion."

 

Cyrus laughed. "Sally would never agree to that even if it were legal."

 

"Well, she knows I'm a better shot," retorted Mellie. "But at least I could call her a coward for it."

 

"I would pay good money to see you and Sally take shots at each other."

 

"Shots have been _fired_ , Cyrus. Didn't you see that smirk on her face when she told that Fox News bimbo about my choice to send the kids to boarding school?" She dropped into the unmistakable Langston drawl. "Mellie Grant has the maternal instinct of a rattlesnake." With a groan, she shook her head. "I'd give anything to shoot back."

 

"Unfortunately that won't help with the voters who think you're a ballbuster," he pointed out as she took another sip of rye. "You need him here, if only for arm candy."

 

Mellie sighed. "Daniel Douglas Langston is hardly arm candy. He's barely lifted his eyes from my chest every time he's been in a room with me for more than five minutes. Why can't the voters notice _that_?"

 

"Because you're an attractive woman and they're telling themselves that they'd do the same thing," said a woman's voice from the doorway. "If you can make it past the primary, you've got a legitimate shot against Reston, but you've got to play to the base for now, and the base doesn't trust a woman without a man."

 

Mellie set down her glass. "Who is this, Cyrus, and why is she walking into our _private_ meeting?"

 

"This, Mellie, is Olivia Pope. She was one of my brightest students and is going to transform your campaign."

 

"By making me look like a housewife?" Mellie remarked acidly. "Nobody wants a housewife to be President of the United States."

 

"Like I said," Olivia Pope told her coolly, "this is just for the primary. When you make it to the general election, it's a whole new game."

 

Cyrus was glancing between the two of them, clearly doing his best not to laugh. Mellie, in the meantime, was doing her best not to upend her whisky into his face. "So you think I need to import my husband to Iowa."

 

"The voters need to see your softer side. But it's up to you. Do you want to win this primary or not?"

 

Mellie downed the last of her drink. "I _intend_ to win this primary. And the general."

 

Olivia Pope smiled. "Then, Governor Grant, I suggest we get started."

**Author's Note:**

> It isn't clear from the show exactly when Olivia and Cyrus first met, but we know he was her professor either in undergrad or law school. I've decided to go with undergrad and make him a professor of political science since it probably would have come up in the show if Cyrus were a lawyer as well as a chief of staff and campaign manager.


End file.
